Blogs Are Stupid

Doesn't anyone believe in Dear Diary anymore? What happened to the joy of putting actual pen to paper? And why does every ordinary Jane and John think they can write well enough to burden the world with their scribblings? It’s a mystery that badly needs solving. My first entry contains my thoughts about blogging and will set your expectations. The rest will probably be stream of consciousness garbage, much like you’ll find on any other blog. Perhaps we will both come away enlightened.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

The Gift

We try so hard, we Moms, to remember all the sweet, special, amazing and beautiful moments that our children bring to our lives.

We photograph, videotape, babybook, scrapbook and blog, all in the desperate hope that we will be allowed to relive these precious moments when they are grown and gone; when they have turned into people we love just as fiercely, but whom are unfamiliar to us.

My boys are twelve and eight.

I wish I could say that I have been successful in keeping those memories in the clarity of my present. But I haven't. Against my will, they have become the property of my past. Lifetimes of moments so succulent I could never surely forget them, are gone without my knowing they had ever been there.

But they are kept in the slippery gray folds of my mind, just waiting for something to beckon them forth on tendrils of memory that are like fine silken threads; soft and slender, but strong. Substantial. Enduring.

When this happens, it is a gift.

The other day, I woke late. I had a nightmare, which is a rare thing for me. I was left shaking and sweaty and unable to surrender to sleep again. I finally drifted back to sleep when the first fingers of dawn drew back the curtain of darkness.

When I awoke again, I heard the boys behind the closed door of Pre-Pubescent One's room. They were giggling and whispering in rare collusion. Pre-Pubescent One said something that I couldn't quite make out, his voice lilting in a high, sing-song cadence.

And suddenly a memory swept over me, warm and solid and wholly joyous. It was a thing I had forgotten. A thing I didn't miss because it was so profoundly gone. But once it was teased into tangibility again, it was so very, very clear, it seemed impossible that I could have let it go.

When Pre-Pubescent One was a baby we lived in a small two bedroom townhome. I often slept on the daybed in his nursery, because of husband's snoring. He always woke before me. And he would call to me, eager to start his day.

"Mama. Dood Moooooooooorning!"

Pause.

"MAMA! DOOD MORNING!"

Pause.

"MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA! MOOOOOOOOOOORNING!"

He was always insistent, but never disconcerted. He would simply cheerfully persist until I responded.

One morning, hoping to buy just a few more minutes, I whispered to him,

"Pre-Pubescent One...Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

He obliged by whispering back...

"mama. dood morning."

I couldn't help but giggle. I looked over to see him peering at me over the crib railing, grinning widely, ready to start his day. Ready to explore his world. Ready to figure stuff out.

This became his standard way of letting me know he was ready to get out of bed, no matter what time of day he was awakening. Hearing him call to me with his unfailing sunnyness always made me smile. It was a testament to his sheer, unexpurgated joy at being alive.

It made my heart sing.

And yet, I forgot it.

But it was given back to me, just for a moment. That silly little sing song voice, not yet changed beyond my recognition, was enough to resurrect it. Sadly, though I am holding it next to my heart with all the strength that a mother's will can muster...I know it will once again slip into the mist of the past.

Unless I write it down. And now I have.

I have committed it to digital memory, which unlike my own, is not so capricious. Maybe he'll read it one day. Maybe he'll remember. Maybe he'll be given the gift of remembering that life was once simple, happy, safe.

I'm living your memory, and your story still brought tears to my eyes. My daughter is 14 months old. She stands in her crib singing mamamamamama until I come get her, and she always greets me with a huge smile and bounce. What a great way to start the day.

Tears in my eyes. I know exactly what you mean. My guys are almost 15 and when they lay down for a snuggle with me, I think "how did these giants get so BIG? What happened to those little pudgy hands?" But sometimes, in a flash, their babyhood comes flooding back and it is such a gift to have that.

Such a perfect sentiment...So many moments do slip through the cracks, and it truly is such a gift when they come wafting back and give us even just one second of precious to savor all over again. This is a terrific post.

I really related to this. And the "dood morning" slays me. I have a 12 year old and a nine year old, and I am amazed at how time has whisked them to those advanced ages. I used to get irritated when older women would tell me to hold them tight, or enjoy it while it lasted because it all goes by so fast. Well, it does.

One of my friends, who just started blogging, told me recently that she started because it occurred to her from reading my blog how wonderful it was that I was recording some of those moments to remember later.

It was something that honestly never occurred to me. That somehow my blog, which I tended to view as angst-ridden self-centered babbling, was unwittingly saving some of my most precious memories.